


writer's block

by kaneklutz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, No beta we kayak like Tim, The Magnus Archives Season 1, no spoilers for today's episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaneklutz/pseuds/kaneklutz
Summary: ”Glad you think my poetry’s mundane,” Martin says drily.Jon looks stricken at Martin’s comment, and blurts out, “I didn’t mean it like that, I only–””Joking, joking.””O-oh,” Jon says. He looks relieved. Odd. Martin wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to care about whether he offended someone. Especially if that someone was Martin Blackwood.-Conversations past the witching hour, with tea to get you by.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 114





	writer's block

**Author's Note:**

> impulse post because my classes are stressing me out

He gives up on writing anything after an hour passes. There are only two weak, miserably little sentences on the open page of his notebook.

Martin sighs, and sets down his book and pen, falls back into the cot to stare at a faded grey ceiling. What’s the point of trying to write like this? When every word comes unbearably slowly, and the sentences do not flow but grind, like mismatched gears placed at angles, and he can’t think with the buzzing in his head–

There’s never been a time in his life where writing poetry felt more like pulling teeth. When once the words had stumbled, clumsy but quick, to the forefront of his mind, forced themselves out of his pen, they are now absent. Abandoning him as easily and as quickly as he scratches them into inky oblivion, crosses out a poorly worded line.

Maybe this is what he gets for taking words for granted. The one thing that had been a consistent source of comfort, reduced to just another thing weighing on his guilty conscience.

 _What good are you, if you don’t write?_ the mean, biting voice in his head whispers, sly as a summer’s chill. _What use do you have, what is your_ purpose, _if the one thing you lived for is now gone?_

His hands form trembling fists, and Martin resists the urge to curl into a ball, shrinking until he disappears forever. It would be easier, yes, and he can barely find the strength in him to be anything solid and real, but he can’t succumb to the weakness of giving up. Not now. Not after everything.

To the kitchen it is then.

He stands, tucks the notebook and pen under his pillow, and leaves the storage room to get a drink. Tea might not help him sleep, but going through the familiar motions of preparing a cup might soothe him enough to at least lie down and rest.

When it’s daytime, the Institute basement is creepy, but the night brings another level of terror. Lights flicker, shadows seem more menacing than they ever have, and Martin jumps multiple times when he thinks something flashes past the corners of his vision, but eventually he makes it to the break room, and turns on brighter, more functional lights.

The last thing he expects to see when he turns off the stove and roots around the cabinets for the good tea is Jonathan Sims. Jon, his boss, at god knows what time, looking for all the world as though someone has dragged him down the stairs and up again by his feet.

”Oh, go- Jon?”

Jon’s expression flickers rapidly from dazed confusion to embarrassment. “Ah, Martin. I didn’t expect to see you here so late.”

”I live here,” Martin points out (rather obviously). He locates the tea– it was in the back of the third-most cabinet, the one no one used– and holds it up. “Did you want tea? Seeing as it’s past midnight, and I really don’t think you’ll be going home anyways. Which, does Elias give you a key or something? Because I’ve never seen you lock up, but the fact that you leave so late means you probably do, and–”

”Martin,” Jon interrupts.

His cheeks heat, blood rushing to their surface, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, ducking his head. “I’ll shut up, you know me. Never know when to keep quiet and all.”

”What?” When Martin looks up again, Jon is staring with knit eyebrows and weary eyes. “No, I didn’t mean to interrupt you, it’s just that the kettle’s about to boil over. And, ah, yes. I’ll have a cup if you don’t mind, the offer is very much appreciated.”

”Oh!” His face flaming, Martin nods and eases the kettle off the stove, taking two mugs from the cabinet above his head.

The tea is set out in two mugs with their strings dangling from the sides; one a milky tan colour, the other darker, and steaming hot.

”Wanna sit?” Martin says, gesturing at the small table slung against the wall, with mismatched chairs scattered around it.

Jon nods, pulls out a chair, and Martin follows, moving to sit across from him.

They sit in silence for a while, holding their steaming mugs of tea. Martin’s hands wrap around his mug, relishing the warmth that almost hurts, perfectly balanced on the edge of burning. He takes a slow, cautious sip, and it feels real, and hot, and good.

”You know,” Martin says over the rim of his mug, “living here’s not the worst. I mean, it’s horrible,” Martin adds at the look on Jon’s face, “but it’s the sort of horrible where you _know_ it’s bad, and you just end up sort of detaching from it? Like your mind can’t dwell on how fu– how bad everything is, so you just sort of gloss over things.”

”Right,” Jon says, and he looks so ridiculously concerned that Martin’s almost touched.

”What’s worse is the writer’s block,” he mutters bitterly under his breath, taking another sip of tea.

Jon hears him, for better or for worse. “I didn’t know you wrote,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “What kinds of things do you tend to write?”

”Oh! Mostly poetry, really.” Martin laughs at the look on Jon’s face. “Not a fan?”

The scrunch Jon’s nose makes is frankly, unfairly adorable, and Martin can’t help but bite his lip slightly to hide a smile.

”Was it that obvious?” he asks, running a hand through his greying hair. “I don’t mean to be _rude_ about it, I’ve just found that poetry’s never quite to my taste.”

”There’s a lot out there,” Martin replies with a shrug. “Poetry, I mean. If you don’t think you’re a fan of the traditional flowery prose stuff, there’s modern styles, older formats. You’d probably like some of the more form-fitting poetry, with numbers and rhythms you have to follow. It’s all very specific.”

Jon’s mouth twists, but he shrugs delicately. One of his shoulders comes up higher than the other, just barely. “And what sort of poetry do you write?” he asks, setting down his mug gently.

”Ah...mostly the flowery prose type,” Martin confesses with a shy smile. He gets a laugh out of Jon though, short but genuine, and that’s worth a million.

”I’m sorry you’re having trouble with it, either way,” Jon says sincerely, and Martin can feel the weight Jon ascribes to every word, the way it flows with importance, smoothly, unstoppable. Honesty in his expression, laid bare for Martin to see.

Instead of reacting like he wants to, he takes another sip of tea. “It’s not the worst thing in the world, dunno why that’s the thing I’m choosing to fixate on. Y’know? Evil worm lady traps me in my flat for weeks and I’m sitting here, complaining about how I can’t write _poetry._ ”

His eyes feel hot, burn like he’s about to cry, and he squeezes his hands into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms.

”It’s perfectly reasonable, Martin.”

Jon’s voice pierces through the fog, soft and clear, unmistakable.

”People aren’t good at processing. Nobody’s mentally equipped to handle what you’ve been through, and you’re reacting admirably. It’s easier– and safer– for your mind to focus on something more mundane.”

”Glad you think my poetry’s mundane,” Martin says drily. He’s grateful the words don’t catch in his throat like they so often do when he’s around Jon. Everything’s different here, sitting together in the dimly lit room, up and awake when all around, the city slumbers.

Jon looks stricken at Martin’s comment, and blurts out, “I didn’t mean it like that, I only–”

”Joking, joking.”

”O-oh,” Jon says. He looks relieved. Odd. Martin wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to care about whether he offended someone. Especially if that someone was Martin Blackwood.

He drains the last of his tea, and stands to collect both their mugs. “It’s late, you shouldn’t go home.”

”Wasn’t planning to,” Jon responds, pushing errant strands of hair from his face and tucking them behind his ears. “There’s always more work to be done here.”

Martin sighs as he turns on the faucet, speaking above the sound of running water. “I meant that you should sleep here, Jon. I can take the sofa tonight, you have the cot.”

Jon waves a hand, dismissing the idea. “I couldn’t.”

”You very well could, and should,” Martin replies, setting the mugs aside in the drying rack. He looks around, making sure that everything else is clean and put away. “You need the rest more than I do, Jon.”

”I’ll be fine. I need to keep working.”

The response is automated, toneless. Jon, who asked about his poetry and made exaggerated faces is gone. Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, remains. Martin’s heart aches.

”Jon–”

”I’m _fine._

The mask is back on, and the softness that made itself known so briefly disappears. Jon’s face is set once more with scowling lines and narrowed brows, eyes dark and serious.

Martin relents. What else can he say? “If you’re sure,” he says softly.

”I am. Goodnight, Martin.”

”Goodnight, Jon.”

**Author's Note:**

> obsessed with exhausted people having conversations during a sleep deprivation high (aka every conversation i have)  
> tired, softer jon and exhausted, blunt martin is good actually
> 
> (i just keep writing stuff from earlier seasons because thinking about the current season will break my brain, actually :])
> 
> edit at 11 pm to say that this was supposed to be & and not / but ao3 doesn't like it when i tag the Main Fucking Pairing of this fandom so i fucked up,,, sorry ;-;
> 
> if you've tried to tag for jmart/ platonic jmart yk what i mean


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